There it was, bearing the seal of the court and the signatures of the seven justices. I read the boy's name, written on the imitation parchment. It was the first time I had ever known what he called himself. I was amused by his having had his license framed.
"So you are in Judge Goodman's office, are you?" I said, rather ineptly, to be sure, but merely to have something to say.
He made the obvious reply, and spoke of Judge Goodman's kindness to him. I asked him how he was getting along.
"Well," he replied, "rather slowly, of course—just at first, you know. But then I think if I can stick it out a while—say five or six years—I'll be all right."
I kept on looking at the old familiar law license, and thinking of my own. I have not seen it for years. I think my wife has it somewhere, in a tin tube with the diplomas and our marriage certificate and her father's discharge from the army and other family charters, if it is not lost.
Then—for I felt that I should say something—I asked him how everybody was in the capital.
